The Game (Tom Wood)

TWENTY-SIX





Gibraltar

Victor had arrived the day after leaving Muir in London. He had flown in from Berlin, having departed London for Zurich and taken the train north across the border. He had a room in a small guesthouse on the outskirts of the town which he had booked for four nights but where he didn’t expect to stay even three. He’d paid in advance so he could leave at any time without creating a problem.

For two days he explored the town, playing the role of a tourist, acting not dissimilarly to Kooi a month before. Victor paid more attention to counter-surveillance than the Dutchman had, however, but witnessed nothing to make him consider he was the object of anyone’s attention.

On the morning of his third day in Gibraltar, Muir contacted him to say that Kooi had received an email from Leeson, requesting a meeting the following day. The timetable was longer than Victor had expected and though not unduly concerned by being proved wrong in this instance, it was the kind of gap in his understanding that could prove fatal at a later date.

The weather was hot and dry. The streets were busy with tourists and locals. Victor wore loose trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled up to mid forearm. Doing so would have been impossible the previous year when the twin scars on his outer and inner left forearm had yet to blend in with the surrounding skin. They were needle thin, thanks to a cosmetic surgeon in Quebec who had been far more accommodating in handing over Victor’s medical records than Schule had in Vienna.

He had arranged to meet Leeson on the seafront, near a harbour full of yachts and pleasure boats, all gleaming white on the azure water. Wind from the sea pushed back Victor’s hair and flattened his shirt against his torso. Sunglasses kept him from squinting and let his eyes scan the area without the risk of his watchfulness being noted.

There was a low but wide wall separating the promenade from the harbour. Victor had told Leeson to meet him nearby at noon. It was a little beforehand. Normally, Victor would have preferred to arrive at least an hour before to scout out the area, but if Leeson wasn’t alone and had people around, Victor didn’t want to take the risk that he would be noticed, for the same reason he gave Muir a false impression of his behaviour and skills. He didn’t want Leeson to understand how he worked. He didn’t want Leeson to know how careful he was. He didn’t want Leeson to understand how little Victor trusted him. He wanted Leeson to underestimate him.

He walked with a large tour group led by a couple of loud local guides who wore louder shirts and delivered their facts and anecdotes with practised enthusiasm. The tour group was from a Mediterranean cruise ship and happily returned Victor’s small talk.

‘My wife couldn’t make it to shore,’ he explained to a personable couple from Scotland.

‘The prawns?’ the husband suggested.

‘Too much sangria,’ Victor said with a raised eyebrow.

Not conducting a proper recon of the locale increased the risks, but it was a poor spot for an ambush, which was why Victor had selected it. The promenade was full of slow-moving pedestrians, few wearing enough clothing to conceal weapons. The street itself was narrow, with tall buildings on one side and the sea on the other. Numerous cramped alleyways and side streets led off into the town. Vendors offered their wares to the continuous flowing mass of tourists. If Leeson had backup it would be a significant challenge for them to spot Victor walking alone. As part of a tour group, it would be almost impossible.

Victor said his goodbyes to the Scottish couple, claiming he wanted to pick up a present for his wife and promising to join them for a drink that night in one of the cruise ship’s many bars.

‘We can’t wait to meet her,’ the Scottish woman said in a thick Aberdeen accent. ‘She sounds like a lovely wee girl.’



When the tour group had wandered away and the Scottish were out of sight, Victor veered over to the agreed meeting point, where a woman sat on the low wall, one long smooth leg crossed over the other. She wore a figure-hugging white dress that stopped mid thigh. The skin of her bare legs and arms was pale and showed no signs of tanning. She wore a hat with a huge brim that shadowed her face and almost her entire body. The wind tossed her wavy black hair back and forth across her face.

‘Where’s Leeson?’ Victor asked when he was within speaking distance.

The woman turned to look his way and tipped her head back so the brim of her hat didn’t block her view. She stood when she had identified him. The dress showed as much flesh as it covered and accentuated her figure.

‘Surprised to see me, Felix?’ she asked, a smile playing beneath the shadow of her hat. Her eyes were invisible behind black sunglasses. Mauve lips glistened in the sun.

‘I’m surprised the marks on your neck have faded so soon.’

The hat hid her frown but Victor knew it was there. ‘Yes, well,’ she began, ‘it’s amazing what a bit of time and a little makeup can do for a girl.’

‘I’m glad to see there’s no lasting damage.’

‘Is that your way of apologising? Because I didn’t hear a sorry.’

‘I gave you the Makarov back, didn’t I?’

‘I wasn’t planning on using it. I know you know that.’

‘Nevertheless, carrying a gun isn’t the best way to make friends.’

She laughed briefly. ‘Says the man who strangled me. Fortunately for you I try not to judge men on first impressions. I’ll put it down to nerves.’

‘So what do I call you?’

‘Francesca, of course. That is my genuine name. I’m not exactly one for hiding who I really am.’

Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘Your dress makes that very clear.’

She grinned.

‘Where’s Leeson?’

She pretended to take offence. ‘Don’t tell me you’d have preferred he had met you instead.’

‘I’d have preferred to never see you again, Francesca. I had hoped you’d have taken my advice and reconsidered your chosen career path.’

‘Still playing that record, are you?’ A smile failed to hide her irritation.

He ignored it. ‘This is not the kind of life you want for yourself.’

‘And who made you the expert on what kind of life I want?’

‘No one would want this if they had a choice.’

‘Who says I have a choice?’

‘You’re responding with questions because you’re defensive. You’re defensive because you’ve chosen this life for yourself and I’m challenging you about that choice.’

She exhaled and briefly looked away. ‘You’re really quite arrogant, aren’t you?’

‘Am I wrong?’

‘Am I?’

‘A woman of your age has had a life before this one—’

Francesca shook her head as she interrupted. ‘Arrogant and so full of compliments…’

‘A woman of your age has had a life before this one,’ Victor repeated. ‘And a woman of your attractiveness doesn’t need it. You’re—’

‘Don’t think you can reverse my opinion of you so quickly. I’m not that easy to manipulate, Felix.’

‘You’re cultured and intelligent—’

‘Hmm, better. More please.’

‘You have other options available to you,’ Victor said. ‘It’s not too late to walk away.’

‘You see, I knew there was a sliver of a gentleman behind that icy front of yours.’

‘You’re playing the most dangerous game there is, Francesca. It’s not too late to walk away, but at some point it will be.’

She laughed. ‘You’re really quite sweet, aren’t you?’

‘Where’s Leeson?’ he asked again.

Francesca smiled once more and remained silent, enjoying her power. ‘Let’s grab a drink, shall we? I’ll pay, and you can pay me back with some more compliments.’

‘I’m not in the mood.’

‘Don’t be a spoilsport. I fancy a cocktail: something tall and opaque.’

‘Where?’

She made an exaggerated sigh and pointed without looking in the direction of the harbour.

‘He’s on a boat?’ Victor asked.

‘No, silly boy.’ She turned and pointed, this time past the harbour, out to sea, out across the Mediterranean. ‘He’s that way.’